There was great rejoicing among the children in the farmhouse of Belle Prairie, one of the most flourishing farms in the beautiful part of Touraine where it was situated. To-morrow would be their mother's birthday, and for as long back as any of the small people could remember "mother's birthday" had always been a holiday. For it fell in June, the loveliest month of the year, and the fun began the day before, when, as soon as they were released from school, they, and some chosen ones among their companions, came racing down the village street on their way to what was still called the "chateau,"--although the house had long since disappeared--there, in the grounds now left to run wild, to gather to their hearts' content honey-suckle and roses, which had not always been "wild," bunches of forget-me-nots and trailing branches of ivy, with which to adorn the sitting-room at the farm which was considered peculiarly their mother's. It was what in an English farmhouse used to be called "the best parlour," and very proud of it were the boys and girls of Farmer Marcel, the owner of Belle Prairie. For it was not by any means every farmhouse that had a best parlour at all, and none possessed one so pretty as that of Madame Marcel, the farmer's wife. The old gates of the chateau were still standing, as massive as ever, though only a few moss-covered stones marked the place where the mansion had once been. And the villagers were too used to the sight of them, and the still distinct traces of a carriage-drive leading to nowhere, to be struck with their strangeness and melancholy, as occasional visitors often were. "It was burnt down in the great Revolution, like many another," they would reply with a shrug of their shoulders. "But what of that? Those old times are past. We are happy and prosperous in our village of Valmont-les-Roses, and the lands of the de Valmonts have long been divided among those who make a better use of them than the old owners-- though, to be sure," some of the older among them would add, "they were not bad masters after all, those Counts of Valmont." And so the village children played unchecked within the ancient gates, and gathered flowers as many as they wished, with none to say them nay. Flushed and breathless, but eager and triumphant, the Marcel children hastened home with their spoils. "Out of the way, little stupid!" cried Pierre, the eldest boy, nearly knocking over his tiny brother of three, in his hurry to get to his mother in the kitchen, where she was busied in some mysterious way which he pretended not to observe--Madame Marcel on her side handing him the key of the best parlour in the most innocent manner possible. "Come quickly, Edmee," he called out as he hurried back again, this time nearly tumbling over his sister as well, for she was employed in comforting little Roger, whose feelings had been much wounded.